The Selkie and the Sailor
by Strawwolf
Summary: Ireland 1769: Forced by a set of unpleasant circumstances Killian Jones has left the Navy and returned home to work as a fisherman. One day during a storm he encounters a young woman unconscious and unclothed, washed up amongst the rocks. He brings her home only to find that she's actually a Selkie. Will he make her stay on land with him or will she return to her ocean home?
1. Chapter 1

Ireland 1769

The sky was grey with clouds stretching to the horizon, threatening to pour down upon the coastline. A fierce wind was blowing in off the shore, its power evident in the lack of vegetation in the area. Nothing more than common sea grass grew amongst the rocks here, coarse and abundant, all matted and bunched from the constant breezes that made this place their home. Out on the sea, the day was about to turn cruel as fishermen struggled amongst the waves to return to shore before the storm descended. Twas a brave man truly, who chose to stay and risk body and boat, reaping the rewards alone rather than pulling for home to seek another sunrise. The most seasoned man could tell which storm was worth bracing and which was not but many had sunk beneath the waves, believing in arrogance that they were the master and the sea the servant. Only true sailors knew the truth, every moment at the mercy of the waves, there but by the grace of God and such superstitions as had survived down the ages.

Today every boat was manned by a sailor with a brain in his head, pointed to shore, oars out, sails up. The warning of what was to come evident in the violence of the water, white froth beating up against the rocks, frenzied and unrelenting.

Killian Jones was among them, awkwardly hauling for shore, his wooden hand hastily tied round an oar. Despite his sail flushed full with wind he was falling behind. Without the full benefit of two strong hands, rowing evenly was a pressure, needing continuous correction as he twisted in his seat, reorienting the boat toward land. And it was no help that facing the horizon he could see the storm's approach, rolling in from some unknown place, loud and angry. A spike of lightning brightened the gloom as he felt the muscles in his arms begin to ache. Normally he would have found the rhythmic dip and pull of the oars a soothing exercise but today was another matter. Storms at this time of year were not to be ignored. More fool he that disregarded the sky.

He flinched at the distant crack of thunder, booming off the surrounding hills, echoing away from him. There had been a time when storms brought a smile to his face, but that was another life, one he preferred to forget. As the surrounding boats drew farther away from him, he fixed his eye to a point on one of the many clouds coalescing in the distance, digging his heels into the hull, praying he would not falter. When it seemed his luck would hold though, the sky opened up with one long sheet of water, cold and sharp, pouring down over him. He clenched his teeth against the shock of it, felt the deluge soak into his clothes. Turning he found he could barely see the coastline and the boat was beginning to fill with water. Cursing all the devils of hell under his breath he sped his actions to a point where every part of him fell into discomfort. Fire lanced up his back, along his arms and down his legs. In contrast his feet, now submerged, were growing colder with every stroke.

_Would that I had a zephyr to blow this tempest back out to sea._

Panic threatened to overtake him when he realized all points of reference had disappeared, hidden behind the weather, leaving him blind to the location of the docks with the full onset of the storm not yet upon him and a steadily filling boat. Fortunately years of training forced him to shackle any worry to the back of his mind. Knowing he pulled to the right because of his hand he did best to row with equal measure on both oars. Often he would be forced to pause and bail as much water as he could manage, his calves now immersed in what could only be termed an icy bath. The wind too, had accelerated in intensity, whipping hair into his eyes, threatening to rend the sail from the yardarm as the waves battered against the boat, almost knocking him from his seat. There was little sense in trying to locate the shore, not knowing if he was even sailing in a straight line anymore. But he was unwilling to wait for the weather to pass. His boat was filling up fast. He would need to find land soon if he hoped to survive.

It was then he felt a scraping under the boat's hull, a grating of wood against rock, forcing him to realize he must be close to shore. Peering behind him he discerned what was little more than a rocky outcropping set against tall cliffs. Looking down he saw his efforts had managed to beach him on Bull Rock, an area known for whale rubbing. It was a goodly distance from Skellig's natural harbour and not where he would have chosen to anchor. Every successive wave however, pushed the boat further out of the water. Forced by no other power than chance, he would have to moor here and pray the sea would leave his boat untouched.

Standing was something akin to a religious experience as he stretched his protesting limbs and flexed his feet, trying to work the blood back into his toes. He slung his measly catch over one shoulder and grabbed the anchor in his hand, jumping down into the water, thigh deep as he made his way to the pebbly shore. Walloped with every wave he was often knocked over and left sputtering, his grip on the anchor never wavering. As water crashed around him, a menace at his back that could suck him under at any moment, he trudged on, shaking from the cold. Upon reaching shore he shucked off the gunny sack and proceeded to haul the anchor towards the cliffs, hoping to find some crevice it could easily be lodged inside. What he found instead caused him to drop the weight altogether.

"Dear God in Heaven."

Lying before him on the ground was a naked woman, eyes closed and still. He swiftly turned about face, but not before his eyes had lit upon every inch of her. Ashamed at his lewdness over a woman so obviously in distress he closed his eyes and cursed himself, hands curling into fists.

Had she been tossed up by a shipwreck? That morning there had only been fishermen sailing about with no evidence of flotsam in the water. There was also the question of her unclothed state but now was not the time to contemplate her origins or her condition. He swiftly unbuttoned his greatcoat and shrugged it off, turning slowly, his eyes heavenward as he knelt and laid it atop her. Holding a hand before her mouth she appeared to breathe, the spectre of death not yet having visited.

Her hair was the colour of the sun, a rare sight for these parts. He brushed aside a blonde lock to get a better look at her face, his fingers fleeting across cold and clammy skin. She was pale and covered in small cuts, her expression betraying no sign of pain or distress. Rather there was a look of peace about her. It would not last long though if she remained out here when the storm hit.

Killian walked back to the anchor, hefted it over his shoulder and quickly found a place in which to wedge it, trusting the strength of the rope would hold. He looped his gunny sack over an arm and then stooped to lift the strange woman into his arms. Limp and pliable, she made no sound as he slowly made his way along the coastline until he found a break in the cliffs. The shore was too rocky to walk along and there was as much a chance of falling in as walking, especially in this wind, especially with his cargo.

The road was muddy and the way dark, with the moon obscured behind low hanging clouds. None of that troubled him though as much as the idea that he was on the wrong side of Broadhaven Bay. In good weather it would take nearly two hours to skirt its length. In bad it would likely take a good deal longer. He knew he could easily catch his death out in this weather but with ample experience in similar aboard ship, he had no cause to fear for his constitution. She however, was such a little thing. He was unsure whether she would survive the journey and the thought pulled at his heart. That she could have been so callously treated by whoever had left her on the shore, only for her to perish, never having opened her eyes again. Grimacing in anger he did his best to double his pace, unwilling to assume it a foregone conclusion that she would die.

An observer noting his passage would have seen a rather large man carrying an oddly shaped bundle, his face set in determination despite the circumstances. Though the wind beat down and the rain poured on, he kept his gait, stumbling and weaving the closer he got to home. It was very late indeed when he finally reached his front door, shivering down to his bones. She had seemed lighter at first but with every step his mind reconsidered the idea. His wet greatcoat had not helped matters. If not for her lack of clothing, he would have tossed its sodden weight aside before leaving the shore. The fact that he was carrying a nude woman, his hands pressed to her bare flesh, was a constant thought and one that he tried to push away.

Trifling with the door a moment he managed to make his way inside without much trouble, striding over to his cot and gently setting her down. He blushed trying to work out how to remove his coat and pull a blanket over her motionless form all while affording her the decency she deserved. In the dark of his cottage the occasional lightning strike flashed through a small window, bathing her face in a strange light. She appeared unaffected by all that had come before while he could not stop shaking, standing in a puddle of his own making, water running off every part of him.

The room itself was quite chilly, the only evidence of warmth being half dead embers from this morning. Slowly he rebuilt the fire, fanning the remnants, setting alight some dried scrub grass he kept as tinder. Usually the cold was no matter to him but as he was soaked clean through and she…she had been like ice in his arms he thought it better to warm the room. There was also the matter of his own clothes. He dearly wished to lay them before the hearth and find something dry and clean to wear. But his sensibilities would not allow him to disrobe in front of a woman, whether she was conscious or not. So instead he sat next to the fire, damp and miserable. He did allow himself one luxury though, removing his wet shoes and stockings. He wiggled his toes next to the flames, wincing as the feeling came back into them in the form of bright pain. It was only in remembrance of his gunny sack that he forced himself to stir, leaving a wet imprint behind on the stone.

His catch had been meagre, likely due to the storm. Bad winds always drove fish to the depths. As he empty the sack on the table less than half a dozen herring fell out, a poor return for hours spent on the water and most certainly not enough to sell let alone live off of. His eyes flicked to the still form on his cot, wondering if she in turn would be hungry when she woke. He unbound a folded leather cloth to pull out a sharp knife. Quickly gutting and boning the fish he threw them into a pan set over the fire. The meat hissed and spat as the fat melted, kicking off flicks of liquid onto the flagstones below. Soon the smell of cooking fish permeated every corner of the room. His mouth watered as he devoured what he could, hunger having set in somewhere between the shore and home.

All the while though, his eyes stayed on her form. Her mouth had a delicate shape and likely a darker shade than it currently held. He watched as his threadbare blanket rose and fell with her every breath. He started when she suddenly moaned in her sleep, turning to face him, hand dangling to the floor. Leaning over he tucked the limb back where it belonged. Her skin was smooth, her hand unmarred by labour, belying her status as a woman of means. But she bore no ring to speak of marriage.

_There are no titled men of property here that she could belong to. Perhaps she is still only a daughter instead of wife._

It was a curious thing, her unknown origins and heritage. It was possible she had been waylaid during the onset of the storm but surely she would not have been traveling alone. Where then were her retainers? She must have come far for there were only fishing villages and farms from here to Derry. He was so lost in thought he never noticed her hand come up to brush her face.

When next he looked over he found a pair of green eyes staring back at him. In that moment his words abandoned him and he found he was only able to gawp, wide-eyed at the woman before him. She appeared nervous yet determined, her eyes darting from him to the door beyond, over to the fire and back. With one brisk motion she sat up, the blanket sliding off, exposing her naked torso. Killian blanched and stood, knocking his chair to the ground, hastily turning and squeezing his eyes shut. From behind him he heard her speak.

"Who are you and what have you done with my skin!"


	2. Chapter 2

Killian simply stood there for a moment, unsure of her words and what they meant. Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, soon followed by a loud bang of thunder that elicited a whimper from behind him.

"Miss I –" What was he meant to say? She was unclothed in a strange place with a man she did not know. "I wish to apologize for any distress I may have caused. If you would be so good as to – "

"Where is my skin!"

Her voice was oddly pitched but few women ever had cause to yell at him so he supposed it was perhaps a natural reaction. The demand was still incomprehensible though he would have answered it if he could. He was uncomfortable with the idea of being disliked for reasons unknown. There were enough people in the world with good cause to despise him and it was less troubling being able to hold a firm cause in his mind.

"I found you next to the cliffs by Bull Rock. I saw no skin but I assure you if I had I would have retrieved it. Perhaps when the storm has passed I can return to search for it."

"You will get my skin and return it to me." The tone was cold and imperious, reminding him of memories buried long ago.

Through closed eyes Killian frowned at her insistence. Was she truly unfamiliar with the ferocity of the storms here? Her ignorance proved the truth of his original assessment. She had to be from a goodly distance away if the force of the wind and rain coming down outside his door did not give her pause. All for the supposed want of a fur. Killian shook his head at the foolishness of it all. He would not pretend to understand the motives of the moneyed. Instead he could only hope this 'skin' was not the cause of her situation as it would only spur her onward, down this ridiculous path to search out her belongings during a storm.

"Miss it would be unwise to travel anywhere at the moment. We are far safer here than outside."

"You _will_ get my skin."

How was he meant to keep her in his cottage if she demanded to go in pursuit of this mysterious 'skin'? He doubted the likelihood of her venturing outside sans clothing but that only brought to mind the image of her naked torso that he had glimpsed before turning abruptly around. It brought to mind his first look at her on the rocks, equally disheveled and unclothed. The first time shock had caused him to turn away. Modesty and manners had forced him the second time but not before his eyes had caught sight of her bosom again. The image of those pert breasts was now seared into his mind like a brand. He felt his face burn in shame as heat shot straight to his loins, his cock twitching in his pants despite his current cold and wet state. Hers were far from the first he had seen. He had after all been in the navy, travelling to far off ports, occasionally being dragged to brothels where his Catholic upbringing had internally warred with his desire to sate himself after long months at sea. It was rather the lack of notice or concern on her part that was arousing. Though admitting that fact, even to himself, had him considering how much penance a venial sin demanded.

As for her, she seemed unaware of the complete inappropriateness of the entire situation. Instead of demanding his name or her current location she had instead asked, nay demanded, that he fetch this unknown object. For the first time Killian considered the possibility that she was ill. He had no idea of knowing how long she had been on the rocks before encountering her. Perhaps she was feverish. It would certainly explain the gibberish issuing from her person.

The only problem was that in order to ascertain her level of health he would have to open his eyes and turn around. He was no doctor but even he knew that fevers could be felt on the skin. He swallowed heavily at the thought. He would have to _touch_ her. Unbidden images flooded his mind of taking a breast in each hand, resting easy in his palms, skin soft under his fingers. Clenching his jaw he cursed his wayward mind, licking his lips cracked from wind and sea salt. The sooner he got her out of his cottage the better.

Of course there was the small matter of clothing her first. Clearing his throat he pointed behind him in the general direction of the chest at the foot of his cot. There was no polite way to demand she dress but if they were to move beyond this point they would need to speak face to face.

"If you would care to dress there are clothes in the chest. I apologize that I have nothing to offer in the form of women's attire but I had no expectation of needing such garments."

A loud clap of thunder punctuated his statement followed by a long silence. The rain pounded down against the roof, the pattern of sound varying as the wind blew to and fro. As he listened to the changing thrum he could almost imagine he was aboard ship again and away from all this. Only there was no steady roll of ocean currents against his legs; no pitch, no yaw. There was no bellowing of orders or bodies moving about in close quarters. And though storms on open seas were worse, the rain always seemed to sound far softer on wood and canvas than stone.

"Dress?"

Killian opened his eyes at the question, her voice bringing him back to himself. She spoke as if the concept was foreign to her. He stared straight ahead at the door, ignoring the puddle he was now standing in.

"Yes. My Sunday best. The shirt is a bit thin at the elbows but clean I promise." He heard no telltale creak of the chest lid. Again he was met with silence. Perhaps she was insulted at the thought of being forced to don a man's clothes?

"I do not-" She sounded unsure, a far cry from the demanding voice she had used previously. "What is 'Sunday best'?"

He frowned at the question, brows knit together. Was it possible she had lost her wits? There had been no evidence of blood and therefore no reason to suspect a head wound. He had seen a man struck dumb once. A falling spar from a French broadside had knocked him to the deck, leaving him mute and drooling. While it was unlikely she had suffered the same fate, this woman was growing stranger by the minute. His eyes traveled down the wood grain of the door, white paint faded from years of neglect, until he reached the floor where wood met stone. _Perhaps she is a heathen instead. _He balked at the idea of having a godless woman in his house. In fact he was quite sure he had never even met a nonbeliever before. Serving in His Majesty's Royal Navy there had been plenty of encounters with Protestants and even several Presbyterians but no man had confessed to lacking any faith whatsoever. He would have perhaps preferred it if she were simply slow-minded. It would be easier to accept. But surely even those who denied the divinity of Christ were aware of the Sabbath?

"My church clothes," he blurted out. "I- I wear them to church."

"Oh." She sounded as unsure as before.

This time though he heard the distinctive creak of his sea chest being opened, the rustle of clothing followed by several thumps and then a clang. Killian raised an eyebrow at the possible mess she was creating but remained motionless. He had no desire to repeat the moments after she first woke, no matter that she could possibly be meddling with his personal effects. The random cacophony was followed by a frustrated huff. He opened his mouth to inquire as to her progress but before he could speak he felt something soft hit his head and then fall to the ground. He glanced to the floor only to see his best shirt lying crumpled at his ankles. A sense of alarm clutched at his chest, only to be interrupted by a hit to the shoulder with what he could only imagine was one of his books. A moment later his trousers followed. If she was throwing his clothes at him then what was she wearing?

"Miss?"

"I…have no wish to wear your…Sunday Best."

He felt a flash of anger at her refusal and clenched his jaw. How was he expected to be courteous if she declined his offer of clothing? Had she no modesty whatsoever? What woman would wish to remain unclothed when- he stopped for a moment, eyes widening. Inwardly groaning at the thought and at his poor luck, he ran a hand through his hair. Surely God would not have twice cursed him with a storm and a… He had to remind himself that he had brought her into his home and that she was likely scared and possibly a simpleton. _She may not be a lady but I can still be a gentleman._ Bending down he grabbed his clothing, bunching the fabric in a fist. If she were a man Killian would have cursed her for a stubborn fool. In this situation however he was rather lost.

"Very well." He bit out the words. "Would you mind donning the blanket then?"

He waited what he believed to be an adequate amount of time before turning around, eyes to the ground. Everything that had been packed away inside the chest had been tossed to the ground, books, clothing and all. Sighing at the mess he slowly looked up at her, blanching at the sight of bare legs. She appeared far less intimidating than she sounded, awkwardly wrapped up in his blanket, face pale as fog, hair hanging limp about her face. She was staring straight at him though, meeting his gaze with eyes the colour of seagrass and while she may have been sharp with him before, she was now shaking worse than he was. It was at that point where pity overwhelmed frustration and he beckoned her with a hand towards the hearth, pulling up a chair.

"If you would care to sit Miss…?"

He was hoping for a name to at least begin to establish what had occurred previous to his arrival on the shore. Alas she made no reply and instead eyed him and the furniture before gingerly sitting on the edge of the seat, keeping him within eyesight. As she seemed loathe to make conversation he took the first step.

"My name is Killian Jones though some refer to me simply by my family name." He had doubts that she would refer to him at all due to her apparently close-lipped nature but it never hurt to introduce oneself. Normally he would have taken her hand and proceeded with a small bow but those niceties seemed out of place here as circumstances had forced them into doing everything backwards. He had seen her bare to the world before knowing her name. In fact he still had yet to be offered an introduction.

"And how are you called?" She raised an eyebrow and stared at him in confusion, her gaze unblinking. There was an intensity to her face and in her eyes that unnerved him. And the more she stared, the stronger that feeling grew. "Your name; you…you have a name do you not?"

"Oh." Understanding bloomed on her face. "My…It is not…I…" She trailed off, casting her eyes down to the floor.

He stood waiting, unable to fathom why she refused to answer him. _Is she embarrassed?_ Killian frowned, trying to imagine the reason. _Perhaps she does not wish to be known. _He had read stories of men leaving their homes and taking on new names, starting new lives on distant shores. _Is she running from something? Or someone? _It seemed doubtful that she was like the heroes in his books. Though enveloped by his blanket with the hearth leaving half her face in shadow, she did appear rather unearthly and nebulous. He decided not to press her on a name, though he supposed just calling her 'girl' would be considered ill-mannered.

Checking to ensure she would stay seated, he bent down and began gathering up the scattered contents of his chest. The naval books were worn and weathered, having been taken aboard more than one ship of the line. His heart clenched as his fingers wrapped around the sextant, his most prized possession. Pulling its weight off the floor, the metal scraped along the stones. He felt a quick flash of anger as he looked over the instrument, praying that it was undamaged after she had so carelessly tossed it aside. He carefully began to pack up his belongings again, ensuring that the sextant was wrapped up safely in a ragged piece of fabric that had once served as a tablecloth. There had been a case but Liam had lost it somewhere in Antigua, possibly gambled or bartered away for its brass hinges. His brother had always been tight-lipped about his activities in the navy before Killian had joined him aboard ship. He suspected Liam had been wilder in his younger days though he had never been able to gather any proof.

As he preoccupied himself with setting to rights the mess created while his back was turned, she watched him. He was strange to be sure, covered in layers with his hair tied back. She had not known what to think upon waking and finding herself trapped in a cave without her skin. Especially now that it appeared she had been brought here by a human. Her mother had warned her about such things. She had heard stories of man's love of the sea and how they would catch her sisters and hide their skins to bind them to the shore. And now here she was, in the same situation, seemingly never to return to her home.

Fear and anger warred in her mind as she watched him through narrowed eyes. If her legs had been stronger she would have considered knocking him to the ground and forcing him to free her. She knew they could be killed; she had seen them drown in storms before. Here on land though, they had the advantage. There was no need for their many boats and they appeared in their multitudes like so many clams littering the ground. It had been an empty hope to expect he was foolish enough to hide her skin nearby. Apart from the container he had pointed to she could see no other obvious place it could be concealed.

As she sat and contemplated how to escape, she curled in on herself, seeking some semblance of warmth. Never before had she been so cold, shivering under the strange skin he had provided, strange smell and all. Truth be told though, she had never been out of her skin this long before. Normally her family sunned themselves on rocks far from shore or at least in large groups away from any humans. On occasion the younger ones would shed their skins and frolic about, enjoying the strangeness of arms and legs, fingers and toes. She too had indulged in such fancies, marveling in the idea of walking on land. But even now she itched for the feel of ocean currents gliding along her body and the bright, sharp smell of the waves.

She only broke her long stare from the man when the fire crackled, causing her to jump and nearly fall to the floor. Turning to the hearth she watched the flames waver above the burning peat and for the first time noticed the heat pouring out towards her.

"It's warm."

She looked perplexed and reached out a hand, mesmerized by this new strangeness, the blanket nearly falling from her shoulders. It felt like the black rock after a day of full sun and yet it was so small. Her eyes reflected the orange glow as she leaned forward, far too late for Killian to stop her.

He was too busy ensuring everything was in its place before closing the lid and pushing the latch down. When he turned to face her again her hand was moving steadily towards the fire as if to grab hold of the flames, transparent and ethereal.

"No!" He reached out to grab her arm but he was too slow to do much of anything except hear her shriek in pain and pull her hand back to cradle it against her chest.

He rushed to her side and tried to take up her hand and see what damage had been done but she wrenched her arm away, glaring as if it was his fault she was in pain rather than her own curiosity punishing her for lacking caution. She was breathing through the pain, panting heavily, her eyes rimmed with tears as she stood and moved away from the fire. She would rather suffer in the cold than ever endure that feeling again.

"Please." He held out his hand as he advanced towards her. "Let me see."

She backed away from him shaking her head, clearly having lost what little trust he might have garnered from her, clutching the blanket tight to her chest like a lifeline. Fear grew in her eyes as her back hit the wall, the jolt distracting her for a moment from the pain blooming in her hand. Killian halted as she slid along the wall, trying to escape his reach. He held up his hands upon seeing how desperate she was to get away from him.

"I promise I only wish to see the burn. Can you show me your hand?"

He waited a long while as she sniffled with a tear here and there running down her cheek before she turned her palm up to reveal an angry red mark. He swallowed heavily, panic starting to set in as he realized the possible seriousness of her injury. He was no physician; he had no training or medicine to aid her. And for the foreseeable future they were stuck in his cottage due to the storm, with town being several miles off and even then there was the possibility that the doctor was visiting one of the many villages and farms in the area. He knew how fast things could turn from good to worse.

Many years ago he had known a midshipman who had suffered a similar wound. They had both only been new to the idea of a life at sea when they were thrust into the midst of a battle in the Mediterranean. The French had moved against Minorca and due to poor signalling and an overly cautious Admiral, the island had been lost along with the battle. Killian had been serving aboard the _Defiance_ along with his friend Rolfe. The two had made fast friends in their collective suffering under the yoke of naval discipline and jittery junior officers. During the battle Rolfe had been put in charge of a gun crew after one of the Lieutenants had been killed. His poor luck had tangled his feet in fallen rigging and he had fallen across one of the hot cannons that had been exchanging broadsides with the _Temeraire_ for the better part of an hour. Rolfe had screamed, losing the skin on both his hands when he was hauled off the gun. A minor injury considering they eventually lost fourteen men on their ship alone but Rolfe had soon joined them, succumbing to infection and then fever, followed mercifully by death.

The battle had been a mess from beginning to end. Admiral Byng had later been court-martialled and executed for "failure to do his utmost", what many in the service had termed cowardice in the face of the enemy. The only saving grace to such a strategic loss to France had been Killian's transfer onto Liam's ship. Although things had ended poorly there too at least he had been happy in the beginning, far happier than he had been in years.

Now however, he was anything but. The woman avoided any effort to alleviate her suffering. She skirted around him to settle back onto his cot, her hand held before her like some sort of pariah. With a thought to the pain she must be suffering he made a snap decision and grabbed the bucket standing next to the hearth. Undoing the latch to the front door he stepped out into the storm, quickly slamming the door behind him. Buffeted by the wind he was soon soaked to the skin again. Clouds obscured the moon, leaving him in near total darkness as he groped around on the ground for a stone, anything large enough to serve as a weight. Nearly falling on his face in the mud several times he managed to grab hold of something the size of his hand. Cleaning it off as best he could he dropped the rock in the bucket to keep it from blowing away and set the container near the door. It would take some time to fill with rainwater but hopefully it would be cold enough to at least help numb the burn.

She watched as he came back inside, catching a glimpse of the rain pouring down before he closed them in again. Freedom of a sort was only steps away. But could she leave without her skin? There was no returning to the sea without it and yet every minute she remained her anxiety grew. It was clear that he had hidden it elsewhere and his excuses about wind and rain were only to keep her from searching. Her eyes never left his figure except to glance at the entrance when she thought his back was turned. Any escape would be hampered by her hand though; she could barely think but for the pain that flared with every beat of her heart. Never before had she felt such an ache, not even when her aunt had bitten her in a panic to escape a man's net. She still had the teeth marks, a set of deep and ugly scars to remind her why humans were so dangerous. Even now he was rummaging around by that place that felt like the sun. He turned to her, his hand outstretched, holding a handful of something bulbous and strange-looking.

"Have you eaten? I know they seem small but they sit better than an empty stomach."

He had nothing to provide her in terms of sustenance, having consumed all the herring caught in the storm. There were a few measly tubers that he could cook but nothing that would amount to a meal. Despite this he presented them her. It was a paltry offering really but it was all he had.

Her lack of reaction to an offer of food had him thinking again of illness and head wounds but as she had yet to permit him near her and he could see no blood, he decided to let the matter rest. He was more concerned with how she was eyeing the door. Despite his explanation of the dangers he had no doubt that she would leave if given the chance. So he put the tubers away and stoked the fire rather than letting it die down as usual. They would both need the warmth tonight. Not that he would be near enough to soak up any of the heat. He spent the better part of half an hour ensuring there was enough fuel to last till morning before standing and stretching.

His mind made up he stalked over to the door, walking around the table instead of beside his cot. Pulling the door open once again he dragged his bucket inside, filled to the brim with rainwater. He set it down next to her, gesturing that she should dip her hand into it. She leaned forward and stared at it with something akin to distrust, raising a leg as if to kick it over but then seemingly thought better of it and simply pulled the blanket tighter around her. She turned her head away, leaving the bucket unused and Killian feeling frustrated and tired as he stood by the door.

"If you should change your mind the bucket will be there in the morning."

He would rather have sat against the stone wall of his cottage, a solid support for his back without the consequence of weather to contend with. But if he was going to keep her from running off, the wall would be impractical and foolish. So he sighed and tried to contend with setting himself against the door instead. Occasionally rattling from the wind, a cold draft flowed in under the door, only serving to irritate him. That combined with his still wet clothes gave him reason to shiver ever few minutes, a full body shudder set on rattling the teeth out of his head. Despite his uncomfortable position though, he kept a steady eye on her, huddled under his blanket.

If anyone with prescience had told him he would encounter a strange woman on the shore and bring her home he would have laughed in their face and perhaps made the sign of the cross against such talk. But here and now it felt far less peculiar with her not five feet from his person. She kept her eyes on him, a piercing look, only flinching every so often at the irregular boom of thunder. Her eyes appeared alert as ever with no apparent concern for sleep. As for Killian, he fought to keep his eyes open but the exhaustion of rowing in the storm and carrying her home was starting to weigh on him. His head drooped, bowing against his chest before snapping back up to attention. He yawned, wiped at his eyes and tried to name all the First Lords of the Admiralty he could think of, drifting off sometime after the Viscount Torrington.

The next thing he knew he was back on his boat and another storm was upon him, rain lashing down, threatening to sink him. There was no sight of shore though he looked in all directions and the sky was black, the stars obscured by cloud. Thunder rumbled on and on like a low growl and a flash of lightning lit up the sky, emitting an eerie green light. It was then Killian realized something was wrong. In his time at sea he had seen many strange things, some that had no earthly explanation but he had never witnessed lightning of such a colour. Another ribbon of light blazed overhead, illuminating his boat and revealing a small figure huddled at the stern. He grabbed the nearest thing he could find to a weapon, brandishing an oar as he cautiously moved with the roll of the boat towards the figure. It took several more lightning flashes until he realized it was the woman he had rescued from earlier. She was looking out at the waves, hands gripping the side of the boat, only turning when he came to stand behind her. As the rain dripped down his face obscuring his vision she stood, naked as when he first found her. This time though she appeared angry, her eyes narrowed, her brow drawn. He fought to keep his eyes on her face but strayed to her bare shoulder that had taken on the appearance of goose skin, a likely reaction to the cold.

She spoke over the wind, her voice like a blow to the belly. "I have no wish to stay aboard."

Before he could stop her she dove into the water, disappearing beneath the waves. He leaned over the side, his grip tight on the oar as he searched in the dark for some sign of her. When she failed to surface he took a deep breath and dove after her. The shock of plunging into the icy water almost forced him to draw breath. Peering around in the murky waters he saw no trace of her.

A dark shape darted past him, brushing against his leg. Fear started to coil itself around his heart as whatever creature he was sharing these waters with returned to make its presence known. Mind made up he quickly swam towards the surface, hands and feet pushing him towards the open air. Before he was able to reach it though, something wrapped itself around his ankle and yanked hard, pulling him down to the depths. Shock opened his mouth and he slowly choked, trying to hold back the flood of water threatening to fill his lungs. As he struggled against the unknown force he felt his vision blur and darken, his limbs grow heavy the further down he sank. He knew his life was fading before him and yet he did not die. When at last he was surrounded by darkness, the grip on his leg ceased. He could no longer see the surface or tell up from down. Strangely he seemed able to draw breath beneath the waves, though how only God knew.

He resolved to find a way back to his boat, despite having lost all sense of direction. Before he began swimming though, he found himself confronted by a pair of glowing eyes. They gave off an eerie blue glow, a shade akin to ice. Hovering just out of arm's reach he had no inkling of what kind of creature was staring at him. But before he had time to contemplate whether it meant him ill or no, it lunged towards him. He had enough time to glimpse a mouthful of sharp teeth before the world went dark.

He woke with a start, tightly inhaling against that sharp punch of fear that had a stranglehold on him, heart beating like startled rabbit. He sighed in relief on recognizing where he was. _Just a dream._ It was then he noticed he was on ground staring up at his roof and the woman was fiddling with the door latch behind him. She had abandoned the blanket, causing Killian to snap his eyes shut and silently curse her for the temptation stirring in his loins. At this point Father Mulcahy would have him doing penance for a week.

Regardless of any baser urges he might be feeling he could not in good conscience let her leave in the midst of the storm. Blindly reaching out a hand he resolved to grab hold of her, believing it would be the least offensive way to keep her from harm. He tensed as his fingers brushed against skin before wrapping around her ankle. She yelped and tried to pull free, attempting to shake him off as she fought to open the door. He tightened his grip and made to stand but a hard blow to his head forced him to let go. _Had she kicked him?_

Wincing in pain he scrambled to his knees, not trusting his hands to find her again without compromising her modesty and his integrity. Instead he chose to risk a peek at the ground, taking in a pair of dirty bare feet as she crowed in delight, having finally mastered the latch. She yanked open the door just as he stepped forward and the two met in a spectacular fashion, knocking him to the floor with a loud bang leaving him dazed and in pain.

He shaded a hand in front of his face, surprised to be met by daylight as she scampered outside, stumbling as she made towards the shore. Killian put a hand to his temple, fingers coming away bloody. He growled in frustration, trying to ignore the discomfort as he stood and stalked to his cot. Snatching the blanket up, he followed her out the door not bothering with shoes or stockings. It had been a problem when she refused to dress in his cottage; now it was a matter of indecency that she was running around outside unclothed. God forbid someone see her. It was pure luck that he lived far from town and any possible prying eyes, though at this hour there was no guarantee. He could only hope that the storm and its aftereffects would slow everyone down today and keep them close to home.

The sun may have been out but evidence of the wind and rain's destructive power was everywhere. His clothes still damp from the adventure yesterday, he shivered as he noted the debris that littered the area. The path outside his cottage had turned into a morass of mud. He slipped several times, likely leaving more than a few bruises on his body. As he followed her clumsy gait, marked by muddy footprints, he did his best to keep the blanket clean. It was the least he could offer when he caught up with her, although he was not entirely sure how to convince her to come back to the cottage. Killian shook his head. He would face that problem when he found her again.

He trotted past puddles, following the familiar route down to the water. Grass and dirt gave way to bare rock as he finally caught sight of her at the edge of the water, the majority of her bare skin now covered in a layer of mud. He sent up a prayer of thanks that she was covered in at least some semblance of modesty. She appeared to be searching for something, flitting in between pieces of large driftwood that had washed up in the middle of the night. He noticed how ungainly she was, nearly falling over several times as she stuck her hands under and in between the pieces of water-worn wood. She seemed preoccupied with her task until he made to walk closer. Her head snapped up, her body tensing as she spotted him, her eyes widening. For a moment she stood still and then turned, running into the ocean.

"Oh bloody…" Killian cursed under his breath and dashed after her, jumping over logs, nearly twisting his ankle as stumbled into the water.

His hurry was unnecessary though. She had made little headway and instead of swimming out of his reach she was flailing around. It took a moment before he realized she was likely unable to swim and possibly drowning. He dove after her, holding tight to the blanket. As he swam through the water he could hear her splashing and coughing ahead of him. When he was finally close enough to grab hold of her he reached out and wrapped an arm around her torso, pulling her to him as he turned towards the shore. She elbowed him in the stomach and dug her nails into his forearm, trying to writhe out of his grip.

"Let go!"

He was going to take her back, take her away from the sea. She tried to kick him, to force him to release her. Her exertions only dunked them under water as he kicked towards shore. He tried to ignore the cold leeching under his skin as he fought to hold on to her. Thinking quickly he flipped onto his back, dragging her with him. She gasped, spluttering against his chest, her struggles ceasing for the moment as she tried to catch her breath.

They continued like this until his feet touched bottom, at which point he quickly stood, bodily hauling her out of the water with one arm. Setting her feet back down on shore he was sure to keep hold of her, acutely aware of his fingers splayed against her ribs, numb though they might be. Her frantic flailing had washed off most of the mud, leaving only traces here and there. He desperately tried to avoid thinking about how she felt squirming in his arms, her body rubbing up against his. Biting back a groan he swallowed heavily, quickly pulling the soaking wet blanket around her shoulders as she continued to try and wrench herself out of his grip. He fully intended to carry her back to the cottage if she refused to go willingly. Judging by her past behaviour she would fight him the whole way. Even now she was still struggling and yelling at him. He was about to tell her off when a voice rang out.

"Good morrow!"

Both of them froze, heads turning towards the cheerful voice. Killian's face paled at the sight of Old Gill, walking along the shore cane and all, smoking his pipe with a bemused look on his face.


End file.
